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Holmes had always found something soothing about his violin.
It wasn't just the instrument, though it certainly had its charms. It was the very nature and quality of music that relaxed his mind in a way that words could never quite achieve…
He had been gifted his first violin as a boy by his parents, who had been anxious that their sons may learn to practice some instrument. Mycroft, somewhat contradictorily, had chosen the clarinet; which he soon abandoned. And as for Sherlock... he had been presented with a beautiful, gleaming wooden instrument that he had seen glinting at his mother's chin, but never thought to play or touch himself. Indeed, in his earlier years, he had held little to no regard for it, and had often thought of the thing (back when he was too young to know better) as a burden.
Suffice to say, he had had some… past bitterness with relation to his violin. He had been rather too small and too young for the instrument (indeed, the bow was nearly as tall as he was the first time he had been shown how to play), which may have accounted for a great deal of the resentment he felt towards it. And yet, as he aged, though he may not have felt much fondness towards it for the best part of his childhood, it grew to be part of his life.
His mother, he remembered, had been a splendid player. She often composed herself, though her works went mostly unacknowledged in a field that societal norms dictated was reserved for men. It was one of the first times his young mind had encountered the basic, misbalanced structure of so-called civilization; of which he was to be shown many more instances.
As a child, Sherlock had been closest to his mother. He had never revealed to Watson, perhaps would never reveal, that he and Mycroft had inherited whatever intellect and mental prowess they had from her; even if he had alluded to the fact indirectly. Yet, the very order of things was not his to judge or change; it would be a long time indeed before society accepted the destiny of the female to be anything other than a housewife or to rear children.
Societal norms notwithstanding, he had spent the majority of his younger years with his mother; perched on her knee, listening to her stories and learning the subtle art of observation, having her brush his (still rather long and impossibly soft) hair as she sang to him lullabies of olden days…
Yet, his fondest memories of her were the evenings during which she played her violin, sometimes long and deep into the night. He listened as the music wove a tale too old, too intricate for speech, whispered and sung to him in the language of eons long past.
To be perfectly honest, words did not come easily to him. He had not his Boswell's gift, that particular quality that allowed Watson's words to flow smooth and uninterrupted like a stream in the mountains, to enthrall and intoxicate his audience like brilliant, aged wine. Neither did he have Mycroft's particular skill of weaving his words into the tapestry of politics, each stitch careful and calculated, focused on creating the final picture as he willed it to be; a gift that had rarely, if ever, failed him.
Words had never been his strong suit. They had he tendency to burst out unexpectedly, dragging him into enough averse situations that he had learned to favour silence. Silence was his armour, it protected him and shielded him from the words of others. On the night of his mother's funeral, silence was what he had resorted to, unwilling or perhaps simply unable to find words to explain, to really express himself.
He had not shed many tears. But that night, long past that hour into the soulless night when life drains itself of its voice and sounds, he had taken up his old violin and sung his grief in a language which required neither words or uttered syllable; he had sung in that timeless tradition that had awoken before the dawn of humanity and would likely live on long past its end.
Music was far more honest than mere words could hope to be. Music could neither lie nor deceive, it was one of those few things that remained truly pure through centuries. Words, he had learnt, were like double-edged weapons that could be wielded at will by he who would master them- they could make and break and twist and warp, they could never be uttered with that same pure honesty that music invoked; too closely tied with the deceit and fabrications that wrapped around human nature.
Words were too unwieldy for him. Some things, he knew, he could never explain using them; couldn't ever hope to explain using them.
He had often come across as cold and unemotional, even to his nearest and dearest. How could he ever explain that, though he managed to express all that pooled in his mind, the honest, raw feelings and truths that lay in his heart couldn't possibly be shaped into a language they all understood? Few people would know it from conversing with him, indeed, he managed to deceive even himself at times (such is the nature of speech!), but Holmes often felt like a man with no vocal cords- who could hear and understand but was doomed to spend life without those around him doing the same.
Silence was his shield, his protector. The mask that he wore was not one born of choice but of necessity. Almost every part of him was entangled in some deception; even the base of his profession was carved upon the exposal of deceit and falsehood!
He was not a man often prepossessing in his manners or conversation. He rarely expressed what was in his heart, what his soul whispered of; even to himself. And yet, on those evenings when he held his violin to his chin and spoke in that sweet, beautiful language utterly devoid of words or hollow verbal promises, he could be true to himself. At last, he could be at peace.
For years, he had spoken thus only to himself- only to that part of his mind which craved and rejoiced in the truth. And yet, recently… as he watched a man who had carved himself a place in his wordless, voiceless heart of stone twitch and start on the settee in the grips of yet another nightmare…
Maybe, just maybe, even with his gift of words, there were some things that even John Watson could not derive from them. And maybe, just maybe, there were things, promises , that the stream of letters flowing from his fountain pen could never inscribe.
Some things did not need words. And so Holmes put his violin to his chin again, and drawing his bow across the strings, spoke to his friend in the only way he knew how; reaching him and telling him the truth when words could not.
Even in his sleep, Watson listened. And in his sleep, he understood.